I’m thinking of the time I was most vulnerable. I’m thinking of what this did to me, of what this did to the way I see the world.  

I remember switching schools in the fourth grade and it felt like there was a major shift in everything I knew to be true about myself. On the first day, I walked through the lunch room looking for a place to sit, and when I couldn’t find one, I went to the nurse’s office to cry. Every day after that sort of blends together in my memory. 

 I’m thinking of the time when I made a best friend who would rip chunks of my hair out because she said it looked too fake. She’s the same one that told my teacher that I had a boyfriend and he called me into the hallways to scold me, not giving me the chance to tell him it wasn’t true. He made me cry. Then he asked me to smile. 

 I cried just as much that day as the day when the boys behind me in line kept touching my butt, but then when I turned around, they would act like they did nothing. I didn’t tell a teacher because I thought I would get in trouble. I don’t know why. 

 I don’t know why I cried when everyone told me the cute boy at school had a crush on me. I felt good about myself until he came up to me and told me it was only for my body. What do you make of that as a 9-year-old? What does it mean? 

Well, it means the same thing as when you’re 16 and your boyfriend breaks up with you for not being sexy enough. It means the same thing when you’re 18 and the boys you meet only want to see you in their dorm. It means the same thing as when you are 21 and you finally admit to yourself that you didn’t want to do that thing with him and that maybe he made you do it. It means the same thing as when you’re 22 and a stranger stalks and taunts you for years for not much more of a reason besides that you are a pretty woman. 

When I was 9, I learned to be pretty. I learned that this is what was important about me. This is what people noticed. This is what made me special. 

When I was 22, I learned that when I was at my lowest point, when I was ready to give up, when I was not feeling so pretty, I had a community of people around me willing to drop everything to wrap me up in a handmade quilt, pick up the ripped papers surrounding me, and stitch them back together. I learned that I am loved and can love. I learned that I am pretty without any eyes on me and that I have something important to say. This is what makes me special. 

Thank you to Mom, Dad, Max, Lilyana, and all the new friends I’ve made along the way, you make me feel pretty.